


The Edge of Lórien

by transaragorn (baelished)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Rimming, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baelished/pseuds/transaragorn
Summary: Boromir stumbles across a rare plant while in Lothlórien. He decides to share this discovery with Aragorn.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	The Edge of Lórien

The crisp air of Lothlórien carries the smoke from Aragorn’s pipe away from his face and out towards the majestic forest. The very atmosphere here is quite different from Rivendell, and Aragorn finds no surprise in the refreshment his body feels just from being immersed in the fair realm. 

He’s settled down for a smoke a tread away from their camp—not to avoid company, necessarily, but to bask in solitude while it’s available. The urge to stay in Lórien for a while tugs at him, but his conscience urges him to follow the path Gandalf laid out for them, to keep on ahead with sword at the ready. 

As Aragorn sifts through his thoughts, he is interrupted by the trampling of grass to his left. He lifts his head to see Boromir walking towards him, holding a dainty translucent-petaled flower with a dark green stem addled with thorns. Boromir’s hands are clasped carefully to avoid the thorns, though he is clutching the flower quite harshly for such a delicate object. 

Aragorn, for his part, can admit to curiosity pricking his senses as he studies the flower. He has not seen anything like it, whether in his travels or in any other elven realm. However...

“You should not go around plucking flowers native to Lórien,” Aragorn tells him. “The elves may think it unkind.” 

“There is a large garden of these strange things,” says Boromir in lieu of an apology. “I should not think they will miss one.”

“And yet you know nothing of their use. You may have interrupted an important growth cycle, or destroyed a rare medicinal herb.”

“Smell,” says Boromir, and shoves the flower into Aragorn’s nose. 

A Ranger does not stick his nose in unknown plants, and he’s about to tell Boromir so when his senses are met with the most intense and sweetest scent he has ever come across. He can’t help but sniff deeper, his nose bumping against the warm insides of the petals. 

“I thought you might know what this is,” says Boromir. “A flower so potent, so mesmerizing…”

“I have not seen its equal. Nor smelled it,” says Aragorn, blinking rapidly as he pulls away from the bloom. His head is buzzing from what he assumes is the intensity of the plant’s scent, yet he has an overwhelming desire to bury his nose between its petals again. His skin prickles like lightning. 

“I have seen similar plants in Gondor,” Boromir tells him. “They say my ancestors bred them hundreds of years ago. They are found in the gardens of Minas Tirith: Silver Lilies, they are called. If they have another name, I do not know. But they are without odor in Gondor.”

Aragorn gazes at Boromir, watching the man’s mouth move around his words. Is Boromir so unaffected by the plant that is sending shivers down Aragorn’s spine? Or is he simply better at masking it?

“I thought perhaps these were the Silver Lilies of my homeland,” Boromir says, looking down at the flower in his hand. “But it is clear to me they are not. I sought to ask Legolas, if by chance this is an elven flower, but presently I remembered your ties in Rivendell, and I cannot deny that I enjoy your company, as it may be.” 

Blood rushes in Aragorn’s ears, a strange throbbing in his temple overtaking him. He shakes his head violently, trying to clear it, but only manages to dizzy himself deeper. When he looks back at Boromir, he finds that the other Man is looking at him _hungrily_ , and Aragorn’s body and mind suddenly align and come to one conclusion:

He _wants_. He wants _Boromir_. 

He’s wanted him since he first laid eyes on the Man, but never has his body’s response been so strong, his desire so forefront in his mind. His very blood is _begging_ for it. 

He has, once on the road, heard whispers of a plant that increases pheromones, making intercourse irresistible—yet he dismissed it as a myth, a story to comfort lonely travelers with visions of love-making. He never imagined that the organism would reside in Lórien, nor that it would cross his path so easily. 

He’s sure now that this is the nature of the plant. Like a fever spreading throughout his whole body, his limbs are alight with the urge to grab, to pull, to touch; and his cock is straining against his trousers, hard enough that a quick graze might set Aragorn on fire. 

“Boromir,” he says, each syllable drawn out as he whispers the name. Knows now that Boromir is truly struck by these same urges, can practically feel the heat radiating off him. He must have been resisting every sensation in his body to walk over to Aragorn, let alone to speak so casually to him. 

“My king,” Boromir replies, dipping his head, though he’s still standing above where Aragorn is sitting. He drops the flower on the ground. His breaths come heavy and deep. “Might you allow me to serve you?”

“Yes,” breathes Aragorn. He could not deny it now, does not _wish_ to deny it. His head pounds and if he didn’t know better, would swear that his skin is alight with flame. He cannot remember ever harboring a desire so strong. 

Boromir crouches on his knees so he is level with Aragorn, cups a hand to Aragorn’s sharp cheek, and Aragorn catches the flash of greed in those bright green eyes before he closes his own on instinct as Boromir’s lips press against his. 

The kiss is wild, needy, and endless. Aragorn, finally getting a taste of what the flower’s elven origins have declared he needs more than anything else, tangles his hand in Boromir’s honey hair and tugs. He opens his mouth to let Boromir’s probing tongue inside, and the sensation makes the desire in his groin spike even more. He works his own tongue against Boromir’s, the warmth of Boromir’s mouth soothing his fiery desire like a gentle aloe. 

But it’s not enough. 

Boromir seems to agree, because he works a hand into Aragorn’s garments, untying his tunic and holding his hand plush against his soft chest. Aragorn leans into it, dips his head forward to nibble at Boromir’s neck. Boromir lets out a growl at the contact, wrapping his free hand into Aragorn’s dark locks. 

“Aragorn,” Boromir breathes out, and Aragorn stutters, lips stilling. He pulls back, looks into Boromir’s lust-laced eyes, and knows at once that he needs this shining hero of Gondor to prove himself to him. Maybe it’s the heir’s blood throbbing hard in his ears, or the pollen loosening his inhibition, but he needs it like he’s never needed anything before. 

Luckily, Boromir is already more than happy to provide the service he offered, dipping his head to lap at Aragorn’s nipple, exposed now that his clothing is rearranged. Aragorn moans him through it, carding a hand into Boromir’s hair again, stroking encouragement. 

Boromir pauses for a moment, indicating that a single clear-headed thought has sparked in his mind. “I do not wish to take advantage,” he says, the epitome of honor. Aragorn loves him more for it, _wants_ him more for it. 

“It is not the pollen from the petals that makes me want you so,” Aragorn tells him. “Their sweet scent has only made the bridge between the two of us easier to cross.” Boromir’s gaze is careful and adoring, and Aragorn knows the Man sees him as the king he addressed him as. “Perhaps it is for the best that you stumbled across this flower, dear Boromir.”

Boromir nods in a low bow of the head, and Aragorn bucks his hips in a needy roll. Boromir notices the movement, and asks the question with his eyes as he slips his fingers gently under Aragorn’s tunic to ghost over the band of his pants, hovering there. 

“Yes,” says Aragorn. “If you don’t, I may cease to exist, oh, _Boromir_.”

“And I as well,” says Boromir, pulling Aragorn free from his trousers and wrapping a large hand firmly around his cock. “So long have I desired,” he tells him, eyes wide and smiling, before dipping his head and taking his king into his mouth. 

Aragorn lets out a groan at the wet heat engulfing him, the desperate desire in him calming slightly at the sensation of what he needs so intensely. It is a pleasure like none he has ever known. Boromir works Aragorn’s cock the way he fights: like he has nothing left to lose, like there is nothing he wants more. 

Aragorn watches Boromir at work, how his cheeks hollow as he sucks, how a bead of sweat drips from his forehead down his cheek, how his fingers, splayed at the base of Aragorn’s balls, cradle and squeeze them in quick succession. Aragorn traces a hand along Boromir’s temple, then slips it into his hair, stroking his head. Boromir looks up at him, an unmistakable urgency creasing his brows. He pulls off to lick a long stripe up Aragorn’s shaft, and the sensation makes Aragorn shiver, hand tightening in Boromir’s hair. 

Aragorn knows that Boromir needs to be praised, needs his ego stroked and his confidence fueled, especially as he provides service so willingly. And he is more than happy to provide. 

“You are dangerously talented, my honorable Man,” Aragorn tells him, sighing heavily as Boromir swallows him down to the root. “Such a wonderful mouth, Boromir. Skilled as you are with a blade and your tongue, I can only imagine,” he swallows a curse as he feels himself hit the back of Boromir’s throat—do all Men of Gondor have mouths like vices?—and struggles to remember how to speak for a moment, “...can only imagine what mastery you have with your own devices.”

Boromir lets Aragorn’s cock fall from between spit-slick lips. He tilts his head, and when he speaks, his voice is low and husky. “Do you wish me to take you, my king?”

“It is my only wish at the moment,” replies Aragorn. He needs it so much it’s dizzying, his head thumping in time with the drum of his

heart and the quick pulse of his cock seeking more attention. No thoughts reside in his mind except those of Boromir and sex. 

“It would be an honor,” Boromir tells him and comes up to press his lips to Aragorn’s. Aragorn lets Boromir bring teeth and tongue into the kiss, welcomes them all the same. Boromir’s hands wander momentarily to Aragorn’s hair, tugging on the wavy strands, then come down to grasp the hem of Aragorn’s tunic. Instead of removing it, his hands freeze in place. 

“Why do you stop, Boromir?” asks Aragorn, breathless, ready to shuck the material off himself. 

“It will be uncomfortable in the grass,” Boromir explains. “I do not want to leave you nude lest by choice.”

“Lórien grass is plush against the skin,” Aragorn supplies, treading a hand through it as a demonstration. “But I care not, regardless. I would have my skin against yours even if faced with hot coals beneath me.”

Boromir nods and frees Aragorn from his tunic, then his boots and trousers. Aragorn basks in the freedom, in Boromir seeing him fully. His cock twitches, his skin burns for lack of touch, and his head continues to throb. He wants so badly, and has an idea that Boromir will comply with any order he gives. The notion relays a pleasurable shiver to his spine. 

“You are still wearing far too many clothes,” Aragorn informs him. “Remove them, please.”

“Yes, my lord,” says Boromir, and his hands go to work at once on his buttons. Aragorn lends his own to assist, and soon the two Men are naked in each other’s presence, both breathing hard from arousal and desperation. 

Aragorn wraps a fist around Boromir’s cock, causing the younger Man to toss his head back in pleasure. He pulls back the foreskin gently, gives the aching shaft a few strokes, and then lets go. Boromir lets out a wanton whine at the loss before remembering his oath of service and snapping back to attention. 

Aragorn kisses him once more, lips gentle this time, and whispers against soft whiskers: “Take me now.” _I don’t want to know what I’ll do if you don’t._

“As you command, my king,” is Boromir’s response. 

Satisfied, Aragorn moves to a new position as quickly as he can. It’s hard with a brain addled with lust, but he manages. As he shuffles to settle on his hands and knees, Aragorn notes the flower lying in the dirt where Boromir dropped it. He doesn’t smell it now, but he can still sense its potency in his veins. Bless Boromir for finding that sweet bloom, and for sharing it with him. 

Boromir’s hands on his hips are gentle. He strokes his way from hipbones to the curve of Aragorn’s ass, leaning forward to press his lips against the back of Aragorn’s neck, nose buried in the dark, sweaty hair. 

“I am sorry I do not carry anything to ease the way,” Boromir tells him, and his voice is truly full of sorrow. He kisses the sharp jut of Aragorn’s cheek, then settles on his haunches behind the Man. 

“I trust you to do right with what you have,” Aragorn says, for he knows Boromir is innovative and dedicated enough to do the job well. 

And well Boromir does, Aragorn thinks as large hands spread him open and a wet tongue nudges at his hole. He falls forward on his elbows, breathing hard. It’s impossible to relax when his whole body is energy, begging for more, more, for _Boromir_ , but he reaches deep inside himself and commands his muscles to lax. 

He feels himself loosening around Boromir’s tongue, and more so as a thick, spit-slick finger nudges its way inside him. Aragorn keens forward, lets out a low growl the likes of which have never escaped his lips prior. Boromir seems to acknowledge this as the encouragement it is, and plunges the finger deeper, all the while licking around the rim. Aragorn bucks back against him, rutting desperately in a guttural, lustful way he has never experienced before. He doesn’t question why he does it, just knows that being here feels right. 

“You are most beautiful, m’lord,” says Boromir, and dips a scratchy kiss to the cleft of Aragorn’s ass. Aragorn can feel that he has slipped another finger into him, giving him a careful stretch that makes him see spots behind his eyelids. Boromir reaches between Aragorn’s legs to fondle his balls where they hang, to squeeze his leaking cock. The pleasure spikes for a moment, then tapers when Boromir retracts his hand, seeming to sense what Aragorn is too blissed out to warn. All the while, Boromir’s fingers never falter in their ministrations thrusting in and out of his newly realized lover. 

For all his enthusiasm and the bloom-bred energy spike, Boromir is a gentle steward, taking time to ensure Aragorn’s wellbeing. Aragorn can thank him for it, but between the anticipation swelling in his veins and the constant throbbing of his heavy cock, he cannot do to wait any longer. He needs it, needs it more than he’s ever needed anything. So he musters all his strength to speak the words that he knows will give him what he desires—and what Boromir seeks as well. 

“If you have spoken true and you want me as desperately as I want you,” he begins, panting in ragged breaths as he tosses his head back to glance over his shoulder at Boromir’s crouched form. The Man is sweaty, tousled, and more beautiful than Aragorn can ever remember seeing him. “You would do well to fuck me right now.”

“As you command, my king,” Boromir dips his head as he removes his fingers. “Your desires are one with mine, and I am at your service.” 

Aragorn watches him spit in his hand—a polite gesture, even with Aragorn’s ass already slick from Boromir’s earlier work—and thinks that he has waited far, far too long to receive the Man. He should never have waited for Boromir to come to him—and if not for that fated flower, would they have still ended up here? 

All thoughts fade from Aragorn’s mind as Boromir presses into him. He drives steady and slow, careful with each push, and Aragorn gasps as each inch of Boromir’s cock fills him. He’s bigger inside of him than he’d looked, or perhaps it’s been too long since Aragorn has been filled. He forces himself to breathe, curls his hands into fists in the grass, digs his knees into the ground to hold himself up. 

Boromir keeps both hands on Aragorn’s hip, grasping it tightly. Though Aragorn assumes it works as an aid for Boromir, he is pleased by the gentle caress of Boromir’s fingers on his skin. It soothes the relentless need thrumming through his veins, distracts him from the burning stretch as his hole opens for Boromir. 

“You feel,” grunts Boromir, voice deep as gravel. “ _Divine._ ” He squeezes Aragorn's hips, digging his fingernails in just hard enough to make Aragorn whine. 

“More,” he whispers, and then Aragorn gasps as he feels Boromir’s balls flush against his skin, his cock buried deep inside him. Both Men breathe heavily as they adjust, their sighs heavy in the air, and then Boromir starts to move. 

Boromir fucks like he was made to, though whether that’s his personality or the pollen, Aragorn isn’t sure. Perhaps some part of Boromir _needs_ to fuck this way, and the flower simply awakened it. The Man moves one hand up Aragorn’s spine to wrap in his hair, and Aragorn lets him use it as leverage. Boromir leans in close, his mouth wet and hot on the cleft of his ear. 

“Wanted you for so long, my Lord Aragorn,” Boromir tells him fondly, nipping at the lobe. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes long in the still air. “We could stay here forever if you’d like. I would worship you for all my days if you wished.”

Aragorn’s brain is so addled with shocks of pleasure, Boromir’s scent, his voice, his hands, his _cock_ , that it makes a response wait for a moment just behind his lips. “Boromir,” he finally gasps out. “You make any other thought of life beyond you dim.” 

Aragorn wants to touch his cock. It’s been throbbing since he first smelled that flower, but he has nothing to rut against. Instead, he lifts a hand to wrap around himself and lets out a cry at the added pleasure. The new balance makes him fall forward a bit, and Boromir wraps a hand around his stomach to keep him supported. Aragorn blesses him for it, for his kindness and comfort. 

Boromir’s breath is heavy on his cheek, his moans loud in his ears. Aragorn finds himself even more turned on, if that be possible, at the sound of Boromir pleased by him, Boromir loving him. 

“Allow me to see your face, please, Boromir,” Aragorn says, turning his head towards Boromir’s. It’s a strain, but it will do. 

Boromir nods, a smile spreading into his cheeks. He pulls out of Aragorn smoothly, and Aragorn is about to protest when Boromir flips him around onto his back. Aragorn looks up at him, at those broad, big shoulders glistening with sweat from the work of fucking _him_ , and Aragorn’s legs fall open with a little whine. 

Glancing around, Boromir collects a pile of their clothes and sets it behind Aragorn’s head to prop him up a bit. Aragorn appreciates the kindness, nods his thanks, and says softly, “Now.”

Boromir settles between Aragorn’s legs, wraps them around his hips, and slides his cock back into the waiting hole. He sucks air in through his teeth, then allows himself to cry out. 

Aragorn finds that he feels _whole_ , feels _new_ with Boromir inside him. Boromir develops a strong new rhythm in this position, and Aragorn suddenly finds their lips pressed together, Boromir’s tongue deep in his throat. He wraps scrabbling hands around Boromir’s muscled back, digging his fingernails into golden skin. 

Boromir wraps a calloused hand around Aragorn’s cock, rubbing pre-cum along the shaft. Aragorn throws his head back, moaning at the dual pleasure of a cock against his prostate and fingers around his own. When he looks at Boromir again, he is struck by an overpowering sensation. 

Aragorn suddenly cannot imagine a life without this Man by his side, in his bed. The fondness Aragorn has harbored for this son of Gondor has blossomed into something he feels is akin to love. To have a valiant soldier by day and a passionate lover by night is something a captain—or a king—could only dream of, and realizes, gazing up at him, Aragorn has found both in Boromir. 

“Might I make a proposition?” Boromir asks, nuzzling at Aragorn’s neck. 

“Anything you desire,” Aragorn tells him, cupping Boromir’s face in his hand, stroking the whiskers at his cheek. 

“I am so close, my lord, and I do not wish to deny you the same pleasure for even an instant,” Boromir strokes a hand through Aragorn’s hair. “But I would have the seed of my king upon my lips—if it please him.” 

“It would please me completely,” says Aragorn. The thought of Boromir’s mouth on him is almost enough to make him peak immediately, but he forces himself back from the edge, helped along as Boromir removes his hand from his cock and uses it to grasp onto Aragorn’s shoulder instead. 

Boromir’s thrusts grow erratic, hard and untimely, rough and uncontrolled, and then he’s coming, mashing his lips upon Aragorn’s reddened mouth as he sighs and gasps into it. “My king,” he says as he empties his load into Aragorn. “My king Aragorn.” Then he kisses him deeply, roughly, completely. 

Aragorn has never felt this full, this claimed, this _loved_. The feeling of Boromir’s seed within him stirs his belly, doubles back that fire in his groin. He rocks back into Boromir’s cock, then cries out when Boromir removes it. He idly feels cum dripping out of his hole and seeping down his thighs, but he’s too focused on his own pleasure now to pay much mind. 

And then Boromir wraps his lips around his cock and any other thoughts Aragorn might have had disappear entirely. If Boromir is tired or spent from his own orgasm, he doesn’t show it. 

Aragorn is so close that the feeling of Boromir’s mouth undoes him. He bucks up into that sweet mouth, and Boromir, bless his soul, takes it all, sucking hard and swallowing Aragorn’s seed as he thrusts into the back of his throat. Aragorn tries to control himself, to stop his hips so he doesn’t hurt the Man, but as he succumbs to his pleasure, to what his body has been begging for, he loses control of his movements. 

True to his word, Boromir lets the last bit of seed land on his swollen lips, tapping Aragorn’s cock against his mouth. He swipes the last of it from the tip, then his own lips. His eyes are still glazed with lust as he observes Aragorn, whose chest is heaving. They watch each other for a moment, Aragorn’s mind still trying to catch up. 

He reaches for Boromir, who clambers over to lean against his chest. They’re both sweaty, but neither Man minds it. Aragorn winds a gentle hand into Boromir’s hair and kisses the top of his head. 

“Do you think they’ve missed us?” Boromir asks, looking around as if only just remembering they did not come to Lórien alone. 

“I would not think so yet,” Aragorn tells him. “The hobbits are more than happy to spend time with the elves and to explore with each other. They are still raw, mind, but they’re resilient, those hobbits. And Gimli and Legolas keep themselves occupied no matter where they are.”

Boromir smiles at that. “Then we might stay out here for a while?”

Aragorn, more level-headed now post-orgasm, able to think with his head and not just his cock, nods. “Though I suggest we dress so as not to startle anyone who does not wish to see us in such a state.”

Boromir nods, and Aragorn sits up so they can retrieve their clothing. They dress quietly, buttoning and tugging on clothes Aragorn would be happy to leave off if not for his desire to keep any wandering eyes safe. There is nothing wrong with sex, and out in the forest it might be different, but as guests in Lórien, Aragorn knows his place and resolves to stick with that honor. 

Aragorn settles on his back once he’s clothed, looking up at the cloudless sky. The grass tickles the back of his head. When Boromir lays his head next to him, Aragorn turns his own and smiles fondly at the Man. 

“I would like to visit this scenario again,” says Aragorn. He reaches over to stroke a hand over Boromir’s arm. 

Boromir considers him for a moment, glancing over at the flower still lying off to the side. “With or without flowers?” 

“I am not opposed to the flowers, dear Boromir. But perhaps it might be nice to take our time and explore each other from a calmer beginning.” 

“I agree it would be most exciting, and I would be honored to share any time with you,” says Boromir. “Perhaps I will speak to the elves about these blooms before we depart, should you approve.”

“Are you planning to pick more?” asks Aragorn. 

“That depends on what they tell me,” smiles Boromir, his eyes crinkling with the fullness of it. 

“I may consider studying them more closely in the future,” Aragorn says. 

“Oh?” says Boromir, a chuckle rising in his throat. Aragorn’s heart pounds as he leans over to kiss him, any more conversation now lost in the heart of the kiss. 

And despite all his duties, all that is expected of and required of him once they leave Lórien, Aragorn thinks that if he had the choice, he might just stay here with this Man forever. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Is it...could it be...my first attempt at LOTR fanfiction? And of course it’s sex because I’ve forgotten how to write anything else!
> 
> Apologies for the messy attempt at canon. I’m still experimenting with how to write these two loves. 
> 
> Find me at @transaragorn on Twitter for Aragorn content, Aramir pining, and general nonsense.


End file.
